


The clock ticks from five to six

by antheeia



Category: A Charm of Magpies Series - K. J. Charles
Genre: Anal Fingering, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Bondage, M/M, Missing Scene, Orgasm Delay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 09:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17041367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheeia/pseuds/antheeia
Summary: "Crane had fucked him (...)—with astonishing, painstaking slowness that had left Stephen crying out and trembling—behind the firmly closed blinds of a reserved first-class carriage on the train back to London."PWP based on the above quote from the first book. Because it was a scene that deserved to be written.





	The clock ticks from five to six

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SerenadeStrong (ninja_orange)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninja_orange/gifts).



> I was SO GLAD to get to write for this fandom. I actually got into it thanks to the yuletide fandom promo post and basically devoured the first three books.  
> I hope the fic is to your liking, dear recipient, and I wish happy holidays to you and to everyone reading this fic~
> 
> A huge thank you to my beta, El, that made this fic 100% better.

They were slightly late.

The old mansion, rather less eerie and macabre compared to when he had first seen it, was almost hard to leave. To be sure, Piper held a plethora of bad memories, of nightmarish images and scary events that Stephen was sure would haunt his dreams in the future—but also a good share of very pleasant ones.

Stephen’s perception of that building—much like his idea of its owner—had changed so much in such a short time, aided by the feeling of power flowing through it and the warmth it seemed to emanate now, and by the memories Lord Crane helped him make inside it. He was pretty sure that once he left, he’d not only leave behind the blood, the bodies, and the charnel posture: everything would become nothing but a recollection, including Crane’s touch. Maybe that was why he played for time, why they were running late.

They had to run to catch the train, and despite Stephen insisting on carrying his own luggage, refusing to hand it over to Mr Merrick, Crane grabbed it in what he must have considered some sort of chivalrous gesture; nevertheless, Stephen had to recognise how it definitely helped to hasten their pace and get them on the train in time.

Once on board, Stephen followed Crane through the carriages and pretended not to notice how the taller man turned to stare at him repeatedly as if checking for his presence. Or, at least, he tried to pretend not to notice, so that he could more efficiently ignore the voice in the back of his mind insisting that Crane was probably hoping to turn and find out he was gone.

The train was departing, and the movement shook the ground under his feet right when he set them inside a first-class carriage that was completely empty. He stopped to look around for a moment, curious and also slightly suspicious. A blue and gold motif covered all the furnishings—the fabric covering the settees aligned along the sides of the carriage, the wallpaper between the windows, the heavy curtains, the covering of the pull-down tables—and an elegant dark moquette covered the floor. There didn’t appear to be a reason for its emptiness.

He heard Mr Merrick proceed to the next carriage, and he hurried to follow Crane, only to find that he had stopped, setting down Stephen’s luggage. He must have looked confused, because Crane—once again staring at him, because there was no other way to describe the intensity of his gaze—smirked, offering an explanation.

“I thought we would need some privacy, Mr Day, so I took the liberty of reserving a carriage.”

Stephen was fairly convinced his expression must have turned from confused to utterly bewildered. He hadn’t even known it was possible to reserve a whole carriage, let alone a first-class one. However, it was hard to ignore the relief washing over him at the realisation that there was nothing to be suspicious about—this time.

He sat down on one of the large sofas, sinking into the soft fabric while his eyes were focused firmly on the only other passenger. Crane took his time: he put the pieces of luggage away, pulled all the blinds closed, took off his own jacket and tidily hung it—the shape of his large shoulders evident through the fabric of his white shirt and flattered by the grey vest he was wearing over it. Stephen half expected him to whip out a bottle of wine from somewhere.

Before they left Piper, there had been a certain urgency in Crane's movements around him. A hunger, as if after everything that had happened, he couldn't bear to stand in Stephen's presence without his hands and mouth touching the smaller man's naked skin. Now, however, Crane's slow, methodical preparations, and the seemingly calculated distance between the two of them, were keeping Stephen on edge, puzzling him, making his muscles tense under the strain of his own thoughts.

Was Crane about to considerately and graciously explain why their relationship couldn't continue once they were back in London? A small part of Stephen couldn’t help but feel gleeful for every moment he was able to share in Crane's company, and was reluctant to let it go. The other part scorned him for letting himself be used thoroughly before being thrown away—his pride suggested he should at least be the one to put a stop to the whole affair.

He was about to do just that, jaws clenched and fists tightened on the armrest, when Lord Crane was suddenly sitting next to him in the same leisurely manner, but with an unmistakable look in his eyes that made Stephen instantly gulp back the words on the tip of his tongue.

When their lips touched—the kiss deep, almost exploratory—Stephen couldn’t enjoy the relief washing over him at seeing the end of their relationship postponed again. The situation, the context, kept him alert, tense: he was expecting to hear, or feel, someone approaching at any moment. Even Crane’s hand, caressing the side of his face and then slowly approaching the base of his neck, met nothing but an uneasy sigh.

“Relax,” was the word blown upon his lips. “I told you, it’s a reserved carriage.”

He opened his eyes to Crane’s face and met the other’s grey irises. Stephen’s gaze undoubtedly made no mystery of his own desire—not when the other’s strong hand was caressing his jaw, fingers drawing small circles against the fine and short hair of his beard—but he kept his hands on the armrest and gulped the aroused lump in his throat back down to his stomach.

“But what if someone comes?”

“No one will come, Stephen.” Crane’s voice was deep, its tone calming and somehow bewitching; it was so tempting to just believe him and let himself be lured into whatever it was that Crane was planning. Of course, it would also be easy to make him stop, but the will to do such a thing had already been kissed away from Stephen and was now being gingerly unbuttoned away by the fingers moving down his shirt, licked away by Crane’s tongue slipping beneath his collar.

With the arousal tugging again at his thoughts and his concerns steadily leaving his mind, Stephen was close, so close to just forgetting and letting himself go. But that last string of rationality stubbornly kept itself intact and pulled at his mind and his guts, letting worry nestle there.

“I want to make you feel so good you’ll cry.” Warm whispers rippled down Stephen’s spine, and he shivered at every button freed from its eyelet, at every word breathed on the skin of his neck and chest. The sudden jolt grappling his lower back almost shocked his worries out of him. “Will you let me?” added Crane, after a moment that, behind Stephen’s tightly shut eyelids, seemed to last immensely longer.

Stephen’s hesitation flowed between them, the air so stiff and tense it seemed to be shaking when his tawny eyes opened again, staring at the taller man in deliberation. Crane’s slow caresses were warm on the naked skin of his chest, and his grey eyes were steeped in an unhurried quality of heat.

Stephen’s nod shattered the tension and Crane’s keen expression collapsed on one of those lopsided smirks of his. However, the passionate kiss pressing Stephen’s skinny frame down on the settees never came. In its stead, a shower of touches and kisses hit his senses—fingers tracing unintelligible figures on his quivering skin, soft lips wetting his stomach, his sides, his hands, both meticulously avoiding all the places Stephen desired them to graze the most. When he tried to touch himself out of frustration, his hand was grasped and firmly kept away, pinned against an armrest. Whether he closed  his eyes to distract himself, or kept them open to try and stay grounded—it all came to naught, as the intensity of his reactions kept unwaveringly growing.

By the time Crane got to opening Stephen’s trousers, the little man’s body felt as warm as if he was running a temperature, and his mind felt just as feverish. Light, stifled moans left his parted lips when a strong grip drove his legs apart and he felt Crane’s teeth gingerly sinking into the inside of his thigh.

Stephen clenched his fists and only faintly tried to struggle out of Crane’s grip, and the other’s hand swiftly got his wrists locked once again. They exchanged a look of liquid lust—Crane’s face between Stephen’s legs—and the same mouth which had just finished marking Stephen’s inner thigh whispered against its flesh.

“Let me do the touching.”

Crane stood, his hand reaching to grasp the other’s chin and tilt it up towards himself. He leaned towards Stephen as if he wanted to kiss him—but when Stephen gave in to the kiss, it was only a brushing of lips and skin, and Crane’s breath tickled his ear instead.

“We’ll have to help you stay still, won’t we?” Crane only whispered, but the vibrations of his voice seemed to reverberate through all of Stephen’s muscles. He gulped, loudly, as his wrists were already getting wrapped in the silk scarf that Crane had just taken off his own neck, and were promptly fastened to the brass lamp behind his head.

Kisses and touches became licks and bites, and Stephen’s skin started taking a reddish hue here and there—where Crane’s teeth sank more firmly, or where his mouth lingered to suck and steal a moan out of his lover’s mouth.

Before Stephen’s half-lidded eyes, everything was slowly becoming so remote, lulled by the constant chugging of the train, made more and more irrelevant with each of Crane’s burning touches. Even the loud whistles of the train seemed absurdly distant as if the two of them—Lucien, his lips brightly coloured with his heated affections and Stephen, panting and squirming in his seat—were removed from reality and floating in nothingness.

In stark contrast with the alienness of everything external to him, Stephen’s body was much too real. His nerves were all burning with pleasure, shivers and trembles shaking him, an itching heat swelling in his chest and swallowing even the points of his feet, toes curled in his shoes. Every touch was gently cold, heartlessly hot, and unexpectedly wet when it circled the ring of muscles of Stephen’s arse.

Crane blew his smirk on the tip of Stephen’s erection, fingers nimbly teasing his hole as Stephen futilely pulled at his restraint. Stephen tugged and jerked at them, shifted his weight and thrust his hips to accompany a whispered ‘please’; and, when Crane’s index finger slipped inside of him, his pleased moan was accompanied by his hand disjointedly clutching nothing and by a stronger tug at the soft scarf keeping him tied.

Crane worked him patiently, slowly, overwhelming his senses and driving him into a sizzling state of intoxication. Out of Stephen’s mouth, Lucien’s name brimmed over, dripped down repeatedly, a whimper and then a grunt and then something in between.

When the second finger slipped inside him, Stephen’s flushed body felt as if it was melting. Crane leaned over for a kiss, the change of angle making the touch of his fingertips ripple up Stephen’s spine, and their owner stop to stare at Stephen’s quivering, blissful expression.

When their lips touched, in concert with Crane’s fingers sinking into him, Stephen smothered a moan on Lucien’s tongue and rolled back his eyes before closing them. In between wanton exhales, Stephen’s body tensed and he felt it splintering, cracking under the pleasure—it was only then than Crane stopped. His hand pulled back, leaving Stephen panting, arching his back and listening to the sound of blood buzzing in his ears; then it went back to caressing, teasing Stephen’s opening, dragging a frustrated whimper out of his throat.

“I can’t-” Stephen’s breath hitched, a lump in his throat feeling so swollen his words choked on it. “Stop teasing me,” he urged, his voice nowhere near firm enough to sound like anything but begging.

“What should I do instead?”

Crane’s half-dressed body, pressed against his own, kept him pinned down on the settee, along with Crane’s big hands, one splayed across his chest while the other was shoved between his legs. Lucien looked eager and yet was still, waiting for the words to be driven out of Stephen's mouth.

“Please, fuck me,” Stephen murmured, his voice hoarse, his back arched against Crane’s body, his hips thrusting against Crane’s hand. At that point, the memory of his pride whispering about dignity in his ear only shortly before sounded so inconsequential and ludicrous he could have laughed at its ideas.

“Here and now?” Crane smirked. “And what if someone comes?” he asked, echoing Stephen’s words from before. And just like Stephen’s pride, that worry seemed now too irrelevant to deserve his attention—too abstract compared to the immediate yearnings of his body and the loud, overwhelming thirst to have Crane inside him again and again, as much as possible, as long as he could.

“I don’t care,” he surrendered, hooking his legs around Crane’s waist and pulling him closer. “Please, please, please, _my lord_ … I can’t-”

When Crane entered his trembling body, Stephen cried out his name, as loud as he could—a sound only coincidentally muffled by the whistle of the train.

Crane’s name filled his mouth, while the sensual brushing of their skins, the teeth gently nibbling at his neck, and the lustful smell of sweat filled Stephen’s mind, so thoroughly it was one inch away from overflowing. At that point Stephen’s worries—what would change once they were in London, how long until his lover got tired of him—were more than negligible or forgotten: there was no space left for them anymore.

He felt as if they had been purged from him, every part of him cleaned out from them, emptied and then filled again with something so warm his heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest. And without his doubts weighing him down, Stephen only knew Crane’s fingers sinking in his sides, burning as if they had every intention to brand him, the sore tugs of his wrists at their soft bindings, the sparkling pleasure surging in his loins and rippling up his back and down his legs, and the irrational wish that he could keep feeling like that forever.


End file.
